


Tip of My Tongue

by misslizanne



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 06:30:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1888503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslizanne/pseuds/misslizanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shameless coffee shop/musician (kind of) AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tip of My Tongue

She sees him every day, same time, 8:15 AM, black hair sticking up in unruly directions, modest amount of dark scruff outlining his jaw, his blue dress shirt and khaki trousers complimenting his broad form. She blames her intense need for coffee for her routine promptness, completely disregarding the fact that he’s always here at that exact time and maybe she just wants to ogle him from afar, the absolute sex god that he is (not that there’s anything wrong with that, she’s a sexually frustrated twenty-something woman, for god’s sake).

He wanders towards the counter every morning, grinning deviously at the way-too-young barista, ordering his usual Americano (“Two creams, no sugar please” in a lilting British accent) winking playfully at the worker before ducking his head out the door and into the brisk morning, trotting down the steps to the subway.

She wonders where he’s going, what his job entails, why he’s always in such a rush, but she never dares to ask, always staying a few people back in line as to not make direct eye contact with him (once she even went and hid in the bathroom for five minutes before coming back out, noticing him just as he was walking out the door, exhaling a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding).

He looks like a casual businessman, not one of those Wall Street pricks she always finds herself on blind dates with, not like Walsh or Neal or the countless other frat boy bachelors of the city she stupidly embarks on relationships with.

She doesn’t know why she’s so attracted to  _him_ , a complete stranger with as intense a need for coffee as she, just that she is and she can’t make it go away to save her life.

* * *

He counts the minutes on the clock until she’s there, 8:15 on the dot, and he can practically hear the bells on the door jingle as she walks in. It’s raining today, and she’s dressed in a long black raincoat, hood propped adorably atop her head. There’s a pout forming on her lips as she shakes the rain off before perusing the menu above him, her eyes never shifting down towards him.

She pushes the hood off her head, revealing the long, blonde curls he’s come to recognize, the golden color bouncing off the lighting of the shop. She bites her bottom lip, tapping her chin with her forefinger while she figures out what to get, coffee or tea, muffin or bagel.

“Your order, sir?” the barista asks, and he steps up, orders his usual and briskly walks out the door, brushing past her without so much as a look, fearing the contact might seep into his soul and burn him.

* * *

It rains again that next morning (nothing like another good soaker for the city’s already cranky commuters), and he’s just entered the shop, shaking out his umbrella and placing it by the door as he takes out his phone, scrolling through the screens, humming when he reads something interesting (and his eyebrow rises and he scratches behind his ear with his free hand and it’s cute and endearing and god, when did she become so enamored by some random guy at the coffee shop?).

“Ma’am?” the barista asks. “Caramel macchiato?”

She nods, paying for it and moving to the side to watch him as he moves closer in the line. His hair is disheveled and up close, she can make out the lines marring his forehead, the scar on his cheek, the unkempt bushiness of his beard.

There’s something else though, dark circles around his eyes, and she looks away when he approaches the counter, his worn voice ordering his Americano before he slumps away to a corner, still looking at his phone, eyes never peeling away.

She takes her coffee and marches towards the door, electing to focus on the long day ahead of her instead of the frown on his lips or the hurt behind his expression.

* * *

He hates to admit it, but seeing her is starting to become his favorite part of the morning and he doesn’t know when it started, just that he can’t seem to find a way to  _stop it_. He knew she was there the other day, ahead of him in line as he tried to pretend he was busy on his phone (looking at random photos of cats on his niece’s Instagram account, but nobody needs to know that).

She’s beautiful, angelic, and completely out of his reach and out of his league, dressed in pencil skirts and flowing blouses, modest make-up that brings out the green in her eyes and the flush of her porcelain cheeks, smart and sophisticated and not at all his type.

He sees her ahead of him again the next day and he walks out of the shop, composing his thoughts before he heads back in. She’s off in the corner when he reenters, her phone to her ear, brow furrowed in what seems like a serious conversation.

“No, you listen  _Neal_ ,” she states, and he sees the clench of her wrist around what looks like a coffee stirrer. “It’s _my_  apartment. Do you  _understand_?”

She huffs, paces in circles in the empty space of the shop. Some of the other patrons have taken notice, an older lady in front of him making a comment about ugly divorces (and god, does he know a lot about those) and he feels this intense need to help, to make it better for her.

He steps to the counter, orders and places twice the amount of money down, signaling to the blonde in question. The barista gets it, nodding in silent agreement.

“Emma’s drink is on him,” the barista tells another, who nods in response.

_Emma_ , he thinks to himself.  _Em-ma_.

* * *

He’s not here, and it’s 8:17, and she’s worried. She looks around the coffee shop, wondering if he’ll be sitting at a table, perhaps using a laptop that he’s been hiding in that satchel he carries around.

The line moves rather slowly today and she eventually gets to the counter (8:20, not like she’s keeping track), ordering her caramel macchiato, moving to the side to wait for it to be made by the busy baristas behind the counter.

He’s still not here, and it shouldn’t bother her, really shouldn’t. She wonders if he’s sick, or if he’s moved or if he’s stopped drinking coffee altogether (and he’s a stranger and she doesn’t even know his name and why should it bother her so much?).

The barista jolts her out of her thoughts, handing over a to-go cup and she heads towards the door, practically bumping into  _him_  as he pushes past her. He doesn’t look up at all, doesn’t even notice her, just mumbles “Apologies, lass,” before heading towards the counter.

Part of her heart cracks, sinks to her stomach because he looks hurt and she’s worried about him. She glances at her watch, 8:24, and heads towards the next block, trying to push him out of her mind.

She’s got more important things to worry about besides some stranger she doesn’t even  _know_.

* * *

He didn’t expect her to be at his apartment that morning, standing outside the building with a pleading look and a desperate excuse for why they should get back together, but they broke up and she has a son and a husband (or  _had_ , divorced a week or so ago after losing a nasty custody battle, not that it matters now).

She shouts and begs, actually gets on her bloody knees and makes a goddamn scene on the busy New York City street. Suddenly, he matters to her, not that she cared back then, the term “separation” enough to sate her need for a naughty affair with a young guy like him, never once thinking he wanted more.

But he did. He wanted  _her,_  he wanted  _Milah_ , she just couldn’t give that to him, and despite the change in her words and the tears on her cheeks, her promises sound absolutely  _empty_.

She assures him that things can be different  _with_  him and  _for_  him but it doesn’t sound the least bit genuine so he pushes past her, his feet hitting the pavement at a brisk speed when he catches the time (8:20, bloody hell, he’s late).

He opens the door four minutes later, practically bumping into some woman leaving and stalks to the counter. He’s late, so so  _late_ and he won’t see  _her_ and it pains him for some reason he can’t quite figure out.

He knows nothing but her name, just knows that right now, seeing her would be the only good part of this already wretched day.

* * *

They miss each other the next few mornings, mostly Emma’s doing. She gets to the shop earlier and earlier, having to get to work before the kids come in, morning choir rehearsals for the upcoming spring concert and all (and that certainly requires copious amounts of caffeine, middle schoolers be damned).

She purchases her usual, adding in a tall black coffee for the band director, a simple thank you for setting up the stage for her the night before when he really didn’t have to and coming to rehearsal to help get the kids started quickly so she can actual  _rehearse_  (David really was a godsend of a colleague sometimes).

_He’s_  not here, though, and she doesn’t bother to wait around, grabbing her order to rush out of the shop and down the street.

* * *

He gets there at 8:15, waiting patiently to see her halo of golden curls walk through the door, thoughtful smile quirking at her lips as she tries to decide what to order.

But she doesn’t show up.  _Again_. Third morning in a row.

He gets to the counter, tells the barista to give him his usual when he notices a tall black coffee left stranded on the counter, the name  _Emma_  sprawled out on the side in curvy black letters.

“Did someone leave this?” he questions, pointing to the stranded coffee.

“Yeah, she just left,” the barista comments. “Probably be back when she realizes she forgot it. Why? Do you know her?”

“No. No, I don’t. Not really, at least.”

He looks at the clock (8:17) and decides he’ll wait to see if she does, something he can’t place convincing him to wait for her.

* * *

“Damn it,” Emma grouses about halfway to the school. It’s 8:20 and she forgot David’s coffee. He’ll kill her if he doesn’t have his morning coffee, especially on early mornings like this (considering his wife Mary Margaret usually sends him with his travel mug, but she’s not up at this hour and he’s completely hopeless when it comes to the workings of a coffee pot and now, Emma’s stand-in wife duties are failing,  _miserably_ ).

She pivots, practically sprinting back to the shop in her heels (she’ll regret this later) to snatch up the missing coffee. She opens the door quickly and she catches  _him_  there, dark jeans and a black shirt, leaning precariously against the counter by her forgotten drink. He’s sipping on his, chatting with the barista about his job. She catches him say, “The music industry these days isn’t what it used to be, but I can pick a good singer out of a crowded subway” and her mental picture of him falls into place, scruffy musician with looks that could kill (and god, she is so fucked it would actually be amusing if it wasn’t happening to her, of all people).

The barista points to her, since she’s obviously been standing gobsmacked for what feels like a century. His eyes peer over to gaze at her, and they’re blue, so  _so blue_  that she feels her heart skip a beat and her skin flush as he licks his bottom lip dangerously slow.

“I believe you forgot something, love,” he states, moving out of the way.

Emma nods. “I did. Thanks for… uh, waiting with it.”  _Waiting with it_? What the hell was that?

“My pleasure,” he answers, smirk quirking at the corners of his lips. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“No, I don’t think we have.” Emma feels her breath hitch as he steps forward, hand outstretched for her to shake.

“Name’s Killian Jones,” he states, his intoxicating lilt making her knees go weak and her stomach to do this embarrassing little flip-flop as he grasps her hand in his. “And you’re…” He playfully tilts his head to the side of her to-go cup, pretending to read it. “ _Emma_ …”

“Swan, Emma Swan.” His hand is still clutching hers gently, thumb brushing across her skin in soothing circles.

“You know, it’s funny,” he says, finally letting go and scratching behind his ear like a damn puppy. “I see you in here almost every morning.”

“Same,” Emma responds, swaying a little as she bites her lip anxiously, a slight blush creeping up her cheeks.

“And it took an abandoned coffee to get us to talk,” he jokes, his chuckle coming out in a low, steady rumble that has him grinning like a fool. “Kind of ridiculous, if you ask me.”

“I guess I’ll have to thank my co-worker for being a coffee fanatic,” she taunts, moving a little closer to him.

He picks up the drink and hands it off to her, but his gaze is still locked onto hers, as if there’s something else he’d like to say but can’t find the courage, a tinge of hope mixed with anxiety swirling around in those blue depths of his. She takes the drink, fingers brushing over his and it just comes out in a quick, sweet question that even has her surprised.

“Would you like to get coffee some time?”

His eyebrow rises, a little confused. “What do you call this?”

She giggles, and god she hasn’t felt this lightheaded in a long time. “I mean, like after work. I teach choir up the street and I’m probably going to need coffee around…” She thinks for a moment. “Three-ish?”

He nods, “Three it is, Miss Swan.”

“Please. Call me Emma.” And with that, she turns, both coffees in hand and heads off to work, a grin on her lips the entire day.

* * *

He’s never gotten coffee at three, but he finds the shop quite empty at this hour, filled with a few lone college students and an older man reading the New York Times.

He orders her a caramel macchiato, him an Americano and sits over by the far window at a cozy table for two. He’s never been more nervous in his life, this  _Emma Swan_  making him feel like a lovesick teenager again, causing his secretary to ask if he’d gotten laid the night before (to which he promptly answered no, not that he hasn’t thought about this Emma in that way, what she would look like without that pencil skirt, blouse shrugged off her shoulders, her golden hair splayed across his pillows, finally seeing just how low that blush on her cheeks spreads).

“Anybody sitting here?” she asks, and he looks up to see her,  _Emma_ , hair pulled back into a low ponytail, pile of music clutched to her chest. She smirks as she sits down and he slides her drink over to her, grinning when she takes a sip and practically moans as it slips down her throat.

They sit there for what feels like forever, the afternoon growing late as he learns that she’s preparing a Beatles concert at her school, and he idly picks up an arrangement of  _Blackbird_ , singing the sheet music quietly to himself. He compliments her choice of song, handing it back over before telling her about his job as a music producer, explaining he once spent nights playing guitar in random clubs in the city before he got his act together and decided to “go corporate.” He jokes that maybe one day he’ll produce one of her students, or perhaps  _her_ , and she shakes her head, claims she’s just a teacher and puts the music away in her bag.

She blurts out that she recently split from some guy named Neal, with whom she shared an apartment (the “It’s my apartment” comment finally making some sense). She sort of shifts in her seat after she’s done explaining how he just up and left and then called the next day to try and have the landlord evict her when his name wasn’t even on the lease. He wonders if she expects him to leave when she remains quiet for a while longer, so he leans forward, takes her hand in his and strokes his thumb across it in a comforting gesture.

He begins to tell her about Milah, the illicit affair with an almost-divorced woman who wouldn’t go through with the entire process for fear of losing the fortune of her wealthy Wall Street husband. His voice cracks when he mentions that she came by a few days ago after losing most of her money and her kid in the proceedings, telling him she’d changed, shoving actual divorce papers in his face as some sort of proof. He tells her he came to the coffee shop to catch a glimpse of her that morning, as stupid as it sounds to anyone but him, but she only chuckles.

His eyes peer up quickly, nothing but dumbfounded awe on his face as she explains she was there and he bumped into her, almost spilling her whole damn coffee on an $80 blouse and the hurt and pain on his face finally washes away, crooked grin growing on his lips.

It should be weird, to tell an almost stranger everything that’s broken him, to have her respond with a story of equal or greater value (she was left at a church in Midtown and grew up an orphan, his father ran out on him when his mother died, she lost her best friend Graham in a car accident, he lost his brother in Iraq) but it all feels natural and he finds a comfort in her he only hopes he can offer back.

* * *

She gets there at 8:15 exactly, but it’s different this time, his hand laced in hers as they get in line behind other patrons, nestling into one another like damn newlyweds (she spends enough time poking fun at those couples to know they must be grossing out someone in here).

He spent the night at hers after hours of unyielding pleasure that she’s never felt before, sparks bursting under her skin as his touch wandered across her body, lighting a fire on every inch of skin as she tumbled over that edge of pleasure and back again (several times, but who’s counting).

Her apartment is closer to the coffee shop than his, or so they tell themselves each and every night he doesn’t make it back home, the past two (or is it  _three_?) weeks a blur of him and his smile and his blue,  _blue_ eyes.

She orders, he pays, and they leave hand in hand, a long, heated kiss left on his lips as she bids him farewell at the subway steps, his hand leaving hers at the last possible second as she walks, light and airy, towards her school.

* * *

It’s a month later when he suggests that she should come visit him at work, claiming the choir director that she is should sing for him at least once in this nifty-swifty relationship of theirs (and yes, he uses those exact words, adorably cheeky man that he is).

He’s absolutely ridiculous as he pleads with her while they wait in line to order. She blushes, shakes her head no, but he’s persistent, and the pout on his face is so hard to ignore that even the goddamn barista is begging her to do it (former student, after all, who thinks it’s hilarious that her very  _annoying_ and  _charming_ boyfriend is hassling her in a coffee shop, of all places).

She says yes, telling him he’d better have coffee for her when she meets him there.

* * *

Of course he has coffee for her, a caramel macchiato held out when she meets him at the lobby of the building. She didn’t think he was lying when he said he worked for Columbia Records, but this is a little too surreal, the eager music student in her suddenly star struck as he leads her towards the elevator.

They get to his floor, and when he walks her down the hallway, there are pictures along the wall of Adele and Billy Joel, John Legend and Celine Dion, Bruce Springsteen and Barbra  _freaking_  Streisand. He notices her little moment and chuckles as he entwines his hand in hers, dragging her down to his studio.

He takes her coffee and places it on the ledge of the soundboard next to a picture of him with John Mayer, a beer in each of their hands, and her eyes widen in surprise.

“I’m a big deal, love,” he jokes and she jabs him in the side.

“I just don’t want you to think I suck,” she states, staring out at the empty studio.

A small frown forms on his lips as he saunters towards her. “No girlfriend of mine shall think she sucks at singing.”

She shakes her head, breathless chuckle escaping her throat before turning to head into the studio to sit down at the lone piano.

He leans down, presses a button to speak to her. “Sing anything you like, love.” He takes a gulp of her coffee, caramel flavor warming his senses as he waits for her to start.

She begins to play a spirited, little introduction on the piano, humming along before she begins to sing the first few lines.

_You’re a red string tied to my finger_ _  
A little love letter I carry with me_

She stops abruptly, looks up at him with a knowing grin on her face and bites her bottom lip. “You know, this would sound a lot better if a guy was singing with me. And if there was a guitar.”

He leans down, presses the button to talk again. “Forget it, Swan.”

“Oh, come on!” she protests, stalking towards the door and reentering the sound room. “If I have to sing, so do you.”

“I don’t know the song,” he argues, taking another sip of  _her_  coffee, hoping she won’t notice how absolutely terrified he is because he hasn’t sang for someone in  _ages_  and the need and pull to do it is too strong, especially around someone like her who makes him feel things fully.

“Oh bullshit, I saw you mouthing along. You know the words.” She’s eyeing him with that glint she gets when she wants her way, the one he’s only started to notice in their frequent trips to the coffee shop, when she wants him to buy her a chocolate chip muffin in the morning, or add a shot of espresso to her drink, or douse her latte with whipped cream or caramel or a dash of cinnamon.

She pouts, her eyes now wide and hopeful and he can’t help but give in to her.

“Fine,” he groans, and she skips back to the studio, Killian trudging close behind. “You owe me coffee for a week.”

“Whatever,” she teases, sitting down at the piano. “So I’ll just start from the beginning again and you can sing the second verse,” she rattles off.

She doesn’t notice when he slings the guitar around his shoulder. He strums a few chords from the song, quickly tuning the instrument and she turns on her bench in bemused disbelief.

“Oh, I thought someone didn’t  _know_   _the_   _song_.”

“Shush, Swan,” he orders as he paces past her with his guitar. “I know the bloody song damn well. The blasted group recorded it here.”

“Hmm,” she ponders, playing the first few chords of the introduction as he hums along, sitting on a stool directly in her line of sight.

_You’re a red string tied to my finger_   
_A little love letter I carry with me_   
_You’re sunlight, smoke rings and cigarettes_   
_Outlines and kisses from silver screens_

He accompanies them quietly, strumming along as if he’s played this song a million times before. He clears his throat a little before he begins to croon the second verse, and she all but loses her shit as his voice virtually melts into the lyrics, feeling heat swarm low in her belly as he smirks through the words (like he knows exactly what it’s doing to her, smug bastard that he is).

_Oh_ _dear never saw you coming_   
_Oh my, look what you have done_   
_You’re my favorite song_   
_Always on the tip of my tongue_

She joins him on the final line as he plucks the guitar strings slowly before bringing the tune to a gradual end.

“Happy now, Swan?” he grumbles, scratching behind his ear (he’s nervous, oh god, she’s made him  _nervous_  and here she thought she’d be the insecure one in the studio).

She gets up from the piano, removes the guitar from his shoulders and cups his cheeks in her hands. “Yes. Very, _very_ happy.”

She leans in to kiss him, lips brushing softly against his in a mix of coffee and caramel, inhaling the spicy scent that is just  _him_ , and he returns in turn, nudging her head to the side, arm slinking around her waist to pull her closer, the sweet feeling of his tongue sliding against hers and the scruff of his jaw scratching her chin making her moan into his mouth.

She’s never been happier in her life that she is completely addicted to coffee, and now, completely addicted to _him_.


End file.
